Why I Rebel
by grad-phi
Summary: "The Games are not just a tool to punish the Districts, they are a tool to personally punish rebels. If the Capitol doesn't like you, you or someone close will be Reaped and killed." During the 17th Games one tribute decides they will defy the Capitol in the arena but as the Games progress, they must reconsider how and why they will rebel. M for discussion of morality in the Games.
1. Prologue

**_/Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games, any of the characters involved in the original series or the related franchise._**

_/okay, I've slightly re-written the stuff already posted, no difference in the prologue but a lot of changes in the first actual chapter so if you already read the originals, thanks, I just had to change from past tense to present to make writing the arena stuff easier./ _

**Prologue**

**The Capitol, Panem.**

_"Once a year, to remind the Districts of Panem of the damage they caused by rebelling aginst their benevolent leaders in the Capitol, they shall sacrifice two children aged between Twelve and Eighteen inclusive. One boy and one girl will be selected from each District through a public Reaping and offered to the Capitol for whom they shall fight to the death within a public arena. The lone survivor will be spared. This sacrifice will be known as the Hunger Games and will continue indefinitely."_

These are the words which repeat themselves over and over again inside my head, becoming a meaningless stream of nonsense as they loop around, slowly mutating. Looking out across the rooftops of the Capitol I can hear the revellers in the streets partying, celebrating the nearness of the next games- only seventeen years after they began and already they have ceased to be a punishment for the Districts' uprising and instead they now descend into a mere form of entertainment for those lucky enough to be born within the boundaries of the capital of Panem. Of course, those in the Districts still see it as a hideous pageant where two children are forcibly taken from their families and most likely killed. No time would ever be enough to change that.

I consider the fact that right now, logically, I should be cowering in fear. However, nothing in my body convinces me that that is truly how I feel- instead I just seem temporarily detached from everything. For once, I'm not hungry, the wind is blowing gently in my face and the sun is setting in the sky… Any psychologist would have had a field day carefully dissecting my abnormal reaction to the situation I find myself in, a situation twenty-four children find themselves in every year, a situation now impossible to escape from.

I have been chosen to participate in the 17th Annual Hunger Games. The Odds had not been in my Favour.

**/As I said, many thanks to the handful of people who read this initially (I know having it under an M rating severely limits your possible audience so an even bigger thank you)! It would be nice to get some reviews though. **

**Also, I know there probably will be tense mistakes, this is because I've had to switch from past to present and I don't always pick up on the difference (despite proof-reading it several times) so if you find any, feel free to include them in a review so I can change them. Same with any other inconsistencies. **

**And finally: Unless stated, all chapters will be from Saeth's POV**


	2. Part 1- I Know How to Fight

**Part 1- I know how to fight**

**Tributes Training Facility, the Capitol.**

The next day, I wake early- used to rising with the sun at home in Twelve to complete the necessary chores before heading to school- so after changing into the loose fitting clothes left out for me, I enter the main living area to find it deserted and eerily quiet after the rush of last night and the Tribute Parade. Sitting by myself at the table and having helped myself to some of the ever-present food that is arranged across the room so that no matter where you look, there's sure to be some excessive display of the stuff, I consider what I would be facing in the next few weeks; first three days of training with the other tributes then one extra individually with our mentors before the interviews that evening. Finally, the morning after the interview, we would be transferred into the awaiting arena to fight to survive. I temporarily try not to consider the path which had led me down this route- I figured there was no point worrying about a Reaping I could now do nothing to change. I wasn't going to be able to sit in peace and quiet for much longer however, as our Capitol escort has decided that it was time for the pair of us- both my district partner and I- to prepare for the day's main event.

"Saeth! You'd better get up and ready! You don't want to miss the start of training now would you?"

With very sentence she utters, the pitch of her voice rises to a near inaudible squeal at the end as if she can't contain her sheer excitement about whatever subject she is speaking about so along with her effected Capitol accent, she sounds almost bird-like. Nor does she ever stop jabbering- she had spent the entire train journey complaining about her problems scheduling all her beauty appointments so as to look her best for the Games as if her appearance would help stop either of us getting killed (personally, I thought that it might though only because to any one from the Districts, her completely altered appearance was terrifying). Sighing, I know that unless I reply quickly, I would continue to have my ears attacked by this high-pitched squealing.

"I'm in here- having breakfast."

"Oh… You're already up then."

I watch as Reubella appears from around a corner, staggering in on heels which were far too tall for her, her tattooed face showing faint signs of annoyance and disappointment (probably because I'd just eaten her favourite dessert- as if she couldn't just get the Avoxes to bring more. I dislike relying on others who had no choice in the matter but she wouldn't have the same problem, probably having grown up with them ever present to wait on her every need. And yes, I was eating dessert for breakfast.) Despite her age- I'd estimate mid-twenties- she has already undergone a large amount of cosmetic altering; her body is covered in fine tattooed lines, tracing out the shape of a rose- red on her face to form the shapes, folds and creases of its petals and green on the rest of the visible parts of her body to represent its stem and leaves. Along her arms, thin tubing is implanted under her skin so that it appears raised like veins in a leaf and at regular intervals, these tubes sprout out of her skin, curving sharply to arc into the deadly points of the thorns. Her hair is dyed a dark crimson, woven into it are the stems and flowers of several real roses. It could have been enchantingly dangerous but her gossipy attitude ruins the effect- at least though, she isn't one of the sagging old women who seem to populate entire Quarters of the Capitol, strutting about in ridiculous fashions that they believe enhance their beauty because they're too rich for anyone to dare to tell them that the idiotic fashions just made them look silly, even more aged and decrepit than they already are. A few years previously, we had had one of these pitiful people as our escort- she had barely survived her first year, leaving immediately afterwards, just another silly Capitolite. We'd gone through eight or nine escorts in almost as many years; no one ever really knew why they left or what they did afterwards when they didn't turn up in a different District, no one cared. Unless they'd bet on how long they'd last.

"Well, you'd best finish up quickly and head downstairs, they'll be starting soon. I'll see if can wake your partner up and send him down when he's ready. Well, go!"

Sighing, again, I quickly clear my plate of the rest of the food on it and head out of the apartment. Although the apartments were always lavishly decorated inside, the corridors which connected them were more minimalistic, chrome and concrete affairs populated by Peacekeeper guards and they felt somewhat colder, harsher and far more representative of the brutality of the Games. Catching one of the futuristic elevators downstairs, I sigh with frustration yet again as I arrive in the Training Centre. Ruebella had gotten the times wrong again and sent me down two hours before training started.

…

Training had begun with a brief introduction by the head trainer; a tall muscular man who went by the name of Milo (he proudly referenced some ancient warrior as his namesake when he introduced himself as if this fact would make him more prolific. Instead, he just came across as self-obsessed). We were advised to take additional care to pay attention to all the survival skills stations which would have the biggest impact on our long term survival, something almost all of the tributes ignored- despite the fact that they had probably been advised this by their mentors as well- as most immediately moved to the weapons stations once Milo had finished. This left me as I was now- sitting at the plant recognition stall by myself, watching as everyone else swung around something particularly large and deadly, on the most part, rather badly. I wasn't sure whether to curse their naïveté or feel lucky that they had as much sense as a wet paper bag. One that had undergone a special sense-draining operation. However, the fact I was not participating in the overt display of attempted suicide by stabbing oneself with your own weapon obviously managed to catch the attention of one of the more mean looking tributes- the male from Two.

"Hey Twelve- those flowers aren't gonna do you much good in the arena… how about a go with a real weapon?"

Looking up at the guy walking towards me, I stand up to face him, noticing that in the edge of my vision the fauna tutor slowly shifting away from the pair of us. Apart from that, there is no other motion in the room- we aren't supposed to fight yet but it doesn't seem like anyone is going to stop us as tributes and Peacemakers alike just stand watching our faceoff. It seems like he's picked me as an easy target to blow off all his extra adrenaline and testosterone on because fairly fighting an armed opponent just didn't give the same kick as beating up an innocent, un-armed helpless kid. (Unfortunately for him, I don't need a weapon to inflict any kind of pain on him, just my bare hands). He waits impatiently, slicing up the air in front of me with his single-handed sword, for a reply that I have no intention of giving.

"I reckon some sparring should do the trick… I'm ready to begin whenever you're not!"

His body language tells me that he's gotten bored of waiting, his weight subtly shifting onto his back foot as he prepares to strike. From his current position, I would guess that he would be aiming for my neck- an easy target if not guarded properly- so I prepare myself to duck, leaving the timing to my instincts alone. However, as the sword cuts through the air but before I'm forced to dodge, the attack is deflected by a thin throwing knife, hurled across the room from the direction of (guess what) the knife throwing racks. It seems insane that the momentum of a blow like this could be overturned by a single thrown knife but it catches on the sword, only slightly above the guard and twists the blade- and in extension, the tributes' arm- so that it shifts upwards, guiding the blade over my head. Even more impressively, the combination of the tribute's amazement and the twisting of the hilt loosens his grip sufficiently that when the sword reaches the highest point in its arc of movement, its momentum tears it out of the grasp of the boy, sending it sailing across the small partition to join the knife, buried hilt-deep in the soft wall. Only now that he doesn't seem that much of a threat do the Peacekeepers come charging in, wrapping their arms around him and restraining him as he struggles valiantly to break free. They drag him across the still silent room as he shouts profanities at both me and whoever threw the knife. While he does this, a skinny, dark-haired boy detaches himself from the shadows and wonders across the room to the stall I was standing in. Silently retrieving his knife, he eyes everyone else suspiciously before turning to leave.

"I could have dealt with him myself."

I speak coldly as he passes my shoulder; in return, he looks at me unbelievingly. Angered by this development, I nearly miss the movement behind me.

Turning round, I dodge the dagger aimed at my throat, catch my assailant's arm, hook a leg between his feet and pull. The boy from Two goes flying head over-heels, dropping his weapon and landing face-first in a pile of fruit. I stamp down on the handle of the dagger, it flips into the air and as it falls back down, I deftly catch it, holding at the throat of my once-again attacker before looking at the boy beside me who remains as impassive as ever.

**/So, if anyone knows which Milo I'm referring to and can tell me, I will tell them how the first three tributes die in the arena (believe me, its interesting). If you can guess how they die now that I've told you its interesting, I will answer one question about the fic. Terrible incentive when so far, I've had no reviews, but I really want to know how many people get what I'm referencing. I will be doing this again. Obviously, the time limit for this one is until I post the first arena chapter. So please review!**


	3. Part 2- The Dinner Invite from a Clown

**Part 2- The dinner invite from a clown**

**Tribute Accommodation**

There are only four of us sitting at the table. Normally, each tribute would have their own mentor but as District Twelve had never had one, let alone two Victors, we are still assigned a special member of the Gamemakers to fulfil the role. These people are hardly interested in turning weak outer area kids into Victors so instead of the normal discussion on strategies, training or anything like that, hardly a word is spoken between us. Even the poor attempts at light conversation from Ruebella lead to nothing so that the only noise is the barely concealed sobbing from my male counter –part sitting beside me. Despite the fact that he was already practically fourteen, he had barely stopped crying since he'd been Reaped; probably not a surprising reaction as for any kid from the outlying regions being Reaped is paramount to a death sentence, although most manage to hold it together better than this. Thankfully, the monotony of this silent meal is broken by a disturbance outside the entrance to our rooms.

"You shouldn't be here. Spying on the other tributes is prohibited."

The doors momentarily open to show the boy from training- the silent, distrustful one, not the idiot from Two- arguing with the Peacemakers whom were provided with compliments from the Capitol just in case one of us decided to do something _unsavoury_. I wasn't sure what this would entail but I guessed it probably did include spying- they tried to prevent any tribute going into the arena with an advantage. Theoretically. Incidentally, I realise that although district numbers were displayed on our training uniforms (currently one-size-fits all, don't mind the blood stains- seems they couldn't be bothered replacing them for three days a year when it's not even televised) I didn't check his so I still have no-idea who he is.

"I've got a dinner invite to deliver to a tribute, if that doesn't constitute spying."

The words are uttered coldly with as little effort as possible. Reluctantly the door is opened and I finally get a good look at him: he's slightly taller than average but thin and wiry with brown hair so dark it is almost black falling across his eyes messily; I guess that he would also be around seventeen like myself and that he would have been particularly popular with the girls 'back-home' although his build doesn't suggest that he comes from any kind of affluent background… Importantly, he's from District Seven- the lumberyards. They'd had one previous victor in the eighth games, Renfrew Urien who was rumoured to be slightly mad now. It was more than probable that I was about to find out as it was unlikely that this dinner invite would be given to the cry-baby next to me.

...

When I enter District Sevens' accommodation, the change from the stern white corridors outside is astonishing. Like our apartment, its floor is lined with a thick, soft carpet but rather than the ominous dark crimson we had, it was a gorgeous cyan. Scattered across the room are various assortments of modern art made of steel and glass so that the entire room is distorted and reflected across their surfaces and as we walk through, a second area is revealed behind a corner, boasting a long mahogany dining table covered in a great assortment of the finest foods the Capitol can provide. Sitting at the head, contrasting the extravagance of his surroundings, is a dishevelled alcoholic; he wears a thin cotton shirt, which is attempting poorly to imply that the current off-yellowy-grey colour isn't the original and a pair of dark green military style trousers while greasy locks of greying, unkempt hair hide his face along with the ragged beginnings of a beard. Noticing our approach, he glances up at us before gesturing for us to sit down, which we do reluctantly. Even at this point, I still haven't exchanged any form of additional communication with the silent boy so I'm about to open my mouth to ask about his district partner when the sullen man speaks for the first time.

"I'd start eating if I were you. You'll need to put on as much weight as possible before going into the arena."

His voice is rough and his tone suggests an air of feigned dis-interest but never the less we both silently and slightly self-consciously help ourselves to the food before us.

"You know, I still remember your brother…"

For the first time, this man looks directly at me.

"He wasn't much use in the arena, got killed pretty quickly. He was crying pretty badly when he died, screaming for his mummy. Same as your sister."

My fingers tighten around the knife in my hand and instinctively I hurl it at him, aiming to just miss his head so that it gives him a long cut along his cheek, which he laughs off with another mouthful of the foul smelling liquid sitting in a bottle next to his plate. Returning my fiery glare, he suddenly seems incredibly sharp, nothing like the shambling drunkard he had been moments earlier.

"I hope you're planning to do better than both of them. And from your display downstairs, I should think so."

With that, he rises from the table and leaves just the two of us tributes sitting there.

My past isn't something I really want to remember but it's something I have to live with, something I have lived with for all seventeen years I have roamed this land. Most of it is pretty typical stuff- I grew up in the Seam in District Twelve with an older brother and sister, both my parents were still alive. Like everyone else there, we survived mainly because of the Tesserae we took, trading off the increased risk of being Reaped against the requirements of just managing to continue breathing. However, that's just about where all the 'normality' ends- before this year, only thirty-two tributes from all of District Twelve had been picked yet two of them both came from my family. In the short space of three years, both of my older siblings were Reaped and killed in the Games- my brother Aberthol when he was twelve for the 8th Games, which Renfrew won and my sister Tanwen when she was thirteen in the 11th Games. Neither Reaping was particularly surprising for my father though, a coal miner with connections to several surviving rebels so after Aberthol was killed, he started training both Tanwen and I- not that it helped her much. Thus, I arrived here relatively competent with any weapon which could be readily replicated in wood- primarily staffs, swords and bows. Most kids my age would have resented the harsh training regime that I had to obey and the fact that this man had permitted himself to have kids to fulfil his own desires when he knew that the probability of them being killed the moment they reached twelve was so high yet despite the deaths of both my siblings, I still didn't hate him. I understood his dislike of the Capitol for everything they had done and I still miss Aber and 'Wen but at the time I thought that I just had to face the reality that there was nothing I could do to change this. What my father did, having kids who might be killed, was no different to what anyone else did- early on no one really understood the implications of the Games, the fact that one year it might be their children who were Reaped, that they would have to watch their own sons and daughters die on television. Even though he was a rebel, even though he should have known our deaths would be his punishment, I couldn't condone him; I am only alive because of him.

Two years ago however, the Peacekeepers arrested him for rebel activities and he was hung in front of the Justice Building- it wasn't a particularly clean job though, as while he was being escorted to the scaffolding, a group of miners attacked the Peacekeepers who were holding back the crowd. In the ensuing stampede to escape the chaos, several Capitol employees were injured meaning that my father was joined by a number of other men on the scaffold that night- they were killed without trial for daring to try to even touch a Capitol citizen. Believing that 'our kind of filth' could ever have a high enough status to even think about touching a Capitolite was a rebellion against their power, the first step towards equality, freedom and everything else the Capitol hated. The last words my father ever spoke to me were to _live only as you, yourself wish. _I intend to follow his wish, to avenge his and my brother and sister's deaths by showing the Capitol that even if they brought me here to die they can't control me that easily. Some would say, why don't you rebel properly- you have the opportunity to speak to the Capitol, to voice your opinions and I have considered that but I know that if I did that, I would be cut off, killed off quickly, an example to the Districts, I would not achieve anything, my message wouldn't get through and there is no-one to act on it, not yet, not in the Districts that have been broken by years of poverty and servitude, by watching their children killed before them nor in the Capitol which indulges itself in its bloodlust. Isn't it better for now at least, to rebel silently, to survive when they wish you to die, to just remind those in power that they are not absolute, they even now, they can't control us completely?

"They're calling them Careers"

The sudden start of conversation from the boy next to me jolts me out of my thoughts. I look at him, curious about what he would say next as he fidgets slightly, playing with the cutlery in front of him, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

"The tributes from One, Two and Four are being called Careers- they've trained in special centres funded by the Capitol their entire life just to volunteer for the games when they turn eighteen, win it and then return to their district to be showered with glory. This the first year it's really happening, that they've trained the full period- for the last couple of years most of their tributes have received a little training but not much as a kind of experiment in how to run the things."

Those three districts did have a disproportional amount of victors so this development was logical I suppose- it also meant that from now on the victors would be even more likely to come from one of those districts, especially if they teamed up to form an alliance. Thus, the gap between the inner area districts which produced luxury goods for the Capitol- which were already well supported financially- and the outer area districts providing the necessary but basic needs of the Capitol would widen even further as the benefits of winning would be solely channelled to Career districts and being Reaped from an outer area became even more of a death sentence. It didn't seem fair but that was the Capitol, if they didn't like you, the odds were never in your favour.

It also means that I won't be the only tribute trained to fight although there is one major difference: whilst I intend to kill only to survive as my revenge, they've been trained to fight viciously and revel in the spilling of blood hungering for fame and glory. I expect that this may have an impact when we're forced to fight each other as the difference in our motives will change how willing we are to take risks; to survive, I can't afford to do anything that may cause me injury, unlike them.

"Want to do something about it?"

He had been carefully watching my reaction to what he was saying, as if it were a test but now it's like he's just flipped a switch and completely changed his personality; the outstretched hand and mischievous glint in the eye are barely reconcilable with the cold, mysterious demeanour he'd had up until this point. I'm kind-of freaked out but I guess the entire thing had been a show to intimidate the other tributes and attract sponsors. Though this acting skill would be helpful, I hope there aren't any more dangerous layers to his personality buried further down. Gingerly, I reach out to shake his hand.

"Saeth Keillan"

"Forest Holbrook. Allies?"

"Allies"

I reply cautiously, unsure of how this is going to turn out.


End file.
